


Once We Were

by fusrodie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Adopted Children, Depression, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 14:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4352963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fusrodie/pseuds/fusrodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Self-indulgent oneshots about the Warden and their adopted child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once We Were

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to make this as open as possible, so the Warden's gender and origin are not specified. This is my first time using "they" as a pronoun, and considering there is no such thing in my native language, it was quite the adventure.

The last time the Hero of Ferelden looked up to the sky, the sun was shining. It had rained all night and then some more, forming such a gloomy atmosphere it could not have been more fitting. A dark cloud looming over would have made things perfect, but alas, temporary bad weather and the cold of Fereldan lands would have to suffice. Though chilled to the bone, teeth clattering and fingertips blue, cracked lips and sickly skin, the Warden was determined not to stop. Nothing would make them turn back and follow the roads back to Amaranthine, not a new Blight, not a dragon, not even an old friend’s heartfelt plea. It seemed long ago, when the tunic and breeches were replaced by blue and silver armor, metal clanking as trembling fingers adjusted and secured, weapon strapped to their back, hood hiding away a stranger's face; it mattered not how long it had been - there was no turning back. The Warden would die.

Ten years. Ten years had passed since their life first turned upside down. Ten years since the ritual, the battle, the blood and broken bodies, ten years since the final blow. Life had not been kind. The fame did not last long: once safe, most people forgot about the Warden who had sacrificed so much for the good of a nation, for the good of the people, and the one once hailed as a hero was but another face amidst the crowd. There were no more smiles, no more offerings and no more ceremonies. People rarely, if ever, spared a glance to the griffon statue sitting in the middle of Redcliffe’s village. New times, new problems. Same responsibilities, same grief. No more.

The idea came suddenly, and there was little time to think it over. Leaving before anyone noticed was the only way, else they risked being discovered and swayed from the decision, the one that was truly theirs. Though death's embrace had beckoned for so long, carving a path towards it was harder than anticipated. Amaranthine was too risky; poison or a blade to the gut could rouse suspicion, cause more trouble than necessary. Throwing themselves carelessly into battle would not work: Oghren would rather die than see their commander struck down. Howe's arrows would find its target before the enemy came close enough to kill. Life had been cruel, and not at all peaceful, a series of imposed tasks, suicidal missions, and selflessness was in short supply these days. Death could hardly be a calm, blissful event, they supposed, specially so when one was a member of the Grey Wardens. Dying at the hands of anything other than the darkspawn would sully the memory of their mentor, the man who had gone to such great lengths to take them away from their past. Though their demise was premature and orchestrated, it would be a Warden's death.

Their march had begun while darkness lulled the townsfolk into the realm of dreams, map in hand, and alone they went, as they always had been, a sweet song come from a good memory echoing in their mind. It was easy to stay resolute while the storm raged, no sound but that of thunder in their ears, and though the wetness of their clothes slowed them down, nature would not stop a hero of legend.

But dawn had come and with it the sun, warm and bright, and the world seemed alive then, full of colors and the sound of people, of nature, their own breathing and the racing thoughts the rain had silenced. They were alive, and it was so easy to hope for a better future when warmth poured into their body, an illusion, they knew, for dawn had come but so would the night, long and harsh and inescapable. Not far from where they stood, fingers finally responding and flexing, muscles cramping but refusing to give in, was the entrance to what would become their final resting place. They would be alone, forever, and the people would soon forget there was ever a Hero of Ferelden. Alistair would mourn them when he realized their goodbyes had been the last, and Leliana would be lonelier than ever. Some part of Morrigan would falter and her feelings would show, and perhaps she would cry, or hug her son tightly without breathing a word. Zevran would be devastated, maybe even more so than the others, but loss was not a new friend, and he would endure.

The Warden would face this alone, and die alone.

The familiar traces of architecture had never been so comforting. A gust of foul smelling wind came from deeper within, a sign that their prey could not be far. The hunt begins, and they are ready. This feels different, wild and blood-crazed; they no longer care, and their steps are not silent. There is no need for subtlety, there is no time for subtlety. All things come to an end, and they preferred theirs to be swift.

They walk, lighting the way, weapon at the ready, but there is no sign of danger. The hours pass and their body grows weary, yet the enemy does not show itself. They sense nothing but their own loneliness, and it speaks volumes in the stone chambers. Why couldn't this be easy? Nathaniel had made it clear, crawling with darkspawn, adamant the commander send at least a dozen Wardens to secure it. He was never wrong, so how could this be? A humorless laugh gets caught in their throat, perhaps this is a sign of the Maker, or whatever deity had seen fit to torment them so? The Blight was over. The Grey of Ferelden rebuilt. The kingdom was safe, albeit still recovering, and would surely prosper in the years to come. There was no longer a place for them in this world; they had done all they could. And instead of peace, they found more pain, no will to live. So they would die, go to the Deep Roads and fall in battle like all Wardens should. But the plan hadn't gone so smoothly, had it?

Tears are threatening to spill down their face when they hear it. A muffled cry, somewhere within the ruins, one that sounds nothing like darkspawn. It does not sound pained, perhaps startled, high pitched and desperate. Oddly familiar. They grasp their weapon with more force than ever before and run towards the sound, despair settles when the torch slips and they cannot see. A shiver runs down their spine, they can feel it, corruption, the taint, and the first monster goes down with a shriek before it can lift its blade. The second comes charging as the Warden tries to adapt to the now almost pitch-black environment, a sword grazing against armor before it meets the same fate its friend had. For a moment there is silence, their stance is firm and they hold position, fully alert, until the wails fill it once more. There is no longer any doubt, and they are sprinting, out of breath but vigilant.

A single brazier burns in the distance, a bundle of fabric and something else on the ground beneath it. The Warden's knees buckle as they approach, too weak to continue when they are but an arm's length away. Their body shakes as they bring it closer, the screams are deafening but nothing matters. The baby kicks, protests as loud as possible, cheeks red and eyes firmly shut. The Hero raises a hesitant hand to brush back the raven hair and chubby, short fingers grasp one of their own, the child stares but they cannot make out the color of their eyes in the darkness. What does it matter anyway?

There is no sign of life other than the one in their arms, no mother or father, and none of it makes sense. Whatever the reason for the abandonment, they could not see it: the baby is perfect in their eyes, spirited and so full of life. Alone. Left to die by those who were supposed to protect and nurture. Hopeless, oblivious to any and all danger, but not passive, fighting for life in their own small way.

The Warden fumbles with the map in the dim light, spots the closest exit. They walk as fast as their legs can carry them, the babe has stopped struggling and now chews on a tiny finger. All of it matters now, death cannot take them, for they were both alone once, but not anymore. Life would always be cruel, but at least they had each other.

**Author's Note:**

> A while back I started thinking about Warden + adopted children headcanons. I didn’t think anything would come out of it, but here it is. Like I said, I had never used singular they, and would very much like some feedback regarding its use.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
